“My father knew many tales,” Shira said, “but there was one my little brother Kuchik and I best loved to hear. He told it always the same way:

“Once upon a time, fair-skinned, blue-eyed men from beyond the northern mountains stopped at a caravanserai to rest their camels and themselves.

“The mistress of the inn was a young woman of the Kirkassi folk who, long ago, had been a people of Cathai. There was a bold, handsome lad among the merchants; and this maiden was the most beautiful he had ever set eyes upon.

“But, next morning, the caravan made ready to leave for their own country, never to return again. The time came for the handsome lad to bid a sad farewell to the beautiful maiden.

“At this,” Shira explained, “it was our part to cry ‘No! No!’ and make a great show of tearful protest. My father would pull a long, grim face and shake his head. It was, he told us, a cruel moment for the young lad.

“Then, my father would ask: How could he part from the most beautiful maiden in the world? And my mother, who always listened along with us, would blush and giggle. Ferenghi though he was, the lad had found his true home and his true love. But what else could he do? His companions were calling for him, impatient to be on their way.

“ ‘And so the caravan moved on,’ my father would say. He would pause a good many moments. Then he’d grin at us and add, ‘He did not go with them.’

“We always cheered and clapped our hands, as we knew perfectly well the tale was of himself and my mother.”

The caravanserai, as Shira described it, lay in a rare spot of greenery. The mountains shielded it from storms, it was well-watered by springs, a river flowed nearby. Travelers gladly broke their journey there.

“My mother and father worked to build the inn larger and more welcoming than it had ever been. It prospered. I grew up there and was happy.”

I broke in to say I understood why she was eager to be home again.

Shira shook her head. Over this past year, she explained, fighting broke out between two warlords, each trying to win mastery of the best stretches of the road. The caravanserai was cut off from the main path and grew hard to reach. Fewer and fewer caravans stopped there. One by one, the stablemen and kitchen help left to find better work.

“In the end,” Shira said, “the only one who stayed was our beloved housekeeper, Dashtani; and we kept the inn going as best we could.

“Some months ago, one caravan did come by. Close to a dozen traders, more guests than we had seen for a long time. Instead of camels, they had horses and pack mules. To me, this meant they had somehow skirted the fighting, avoided the worst reaches of the desert route, and followed a smoother road.

“They said nothing of what goods they bought or sold. That was not our business, what difference did it make to us? We were only too glad to have them. The caravan master, the one who seemed to be their leader, was a big, meaty-faced man with a coarse beard and quick eyes. Though he dressed like a Keshavari, he was a Westerner.

“He called himself ‘Charkosh.’ He was rough-spoken with his companions, but hearty and good-natured with us. He took a friendly interest in our caravanserai, so my father proudly showed him around, explaining and pointing out how we had built it up over the years. Charkosh did not tell us how long he and his comrades meant to stay; but he showed us money more than enough for anything they wanted.

“I had no cause to dislike him. But I did,” Shira said. “I came to hate being around him. I felt his eyes always on me as I went about my work. I kept this to myself and never spoke of it to my parents or Dashtani. They would, I knew, be angry at Charkosh. Only ill could come of it, so I let it go. He and his caravan would sooner or later be on their way.

“Charkosh had the habit of sitting late in the eating room. My father, as a good host, sat with him at his table while a couple of his companions lingered close by.

“One night, Charkosh sat up later than usual. At supper, he had told us he meant to leave the next morning. Several of the traders had already ridden ahead; a few others would stay another day or two. Charkosh himself, with the rest of his companions, would set off before dawn. I was relieved to hear that.

“I slept in a small room by the kitchen. What roused me were loud words between Charkosh and my father. I got up and crept to the doorway.

“ ‘And I tell you, mirza,’ Charkosh was insisting, ‘you are starving your family to death. I see that for myself. Since I stopped here, how many other travelers have come? None. How many can you expect after I go? Likewise, none. Mirza, these are pinching times.’

“My father answered that times can change. Yes, we were going through lean days. But with a little patience, all would turn right again.

“ ‘Patience?’ said Charkosh. ‘Tell me, mirza, can you eat patience for supper? I’ve passed caravanserais bigger and better than yours. What are they now? Empty shells. The sands have swallowed them up.

“ ‘I want to help you,’ he went on. ‘You are a good, honest fellow. I like you. But clearly you have too many mouths to feed. We are men of the world, you and I. These things are done every day. Common practice. You know that. And you would still have the boy.

“ ‘The girl will live a good life, better than any you could give. In a wealthy household, perhaps a nobleman’s, with others like herself.’

“Charkosh took out a purse and set it on the table. ‘I give you this much. Yes, of course, she’ll fetch more on the open market. But, you understand, I must have a little profit. And consider my expenses.’

“My father had leaned forward. I did not catch all his words, but I had never seen such a look of rage on his face.

“ ‘And so where do we stand?’ said Charkosh. ‘Have we a bargain? No? Are you sure? Ah, mirza, you will regret it.’

“It had taken a few moments for me to understand what Charkosh had wanted. I stood rigid, hardly believing what I had heard. Charkosh sighed and shrugged.

“ ‘It is disheartening when people refuse to let themselves be helped,’ he said. ‘But, so be it.’

“He slid the purse back into his waistband. In the same motion, so quick my eyes could barely follow, he had a dagger in his hand.

“I cried out and ran to them. Charkosh kicked his bench aside and stood up. My father sat there, mouth open, staring bewildered, hands pressed against his breast. Blood was spreading over his shirtfront.

“I threw myself on Charkosh and tried to twist away the blade. He was gripping it too tightly. I bit into his wrist. I felt bone grating against my teeth. He cursed and struck at me. I clenched my jaw, he could not shake me loose.

“I had only a glimpse of my mother in her nightdress, Dashtani behind her, running down the stairs. I did not see my brother. Charkosh was beating at my face. His companions had jumped to their feet. One of them gave me a hard blow to the back of my head. That was the end of it.”